


I Get Sentimental When You Hold Me Tight

by fiasco_sauce



Series: It's Just the Nearness of You [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alpha Bucky Barnes, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Feral Bucky Barnes, Hand Feeding, Huddling for Warmth but Emotionally, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Magical Healing Hugs, Omega Steve Rogers, Restraints, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-01
Updated: 2016-11-01
Packaged: 2018-08-28 12:59:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8446840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fiasco_sauce/pseuds/fiasco_sauce
Summary: The growl started as soon as Steve stepped through the cell door.Steve was barefoot and empty-handed, dressed only in sweatpants and a tank top. He spun in a slow circle to show there were no weapons tucked into his waistband or hidden at the small of his back. No threat, his lowered gaze and open palms said. It was a lie, and the other man in the room knew it. Steve’s body was weapon enough. (Post-CA:TWS Bucky catches up on gentle skin contact, courtesy of Steve.)





	

**Author's Note:**

> I am utter trash for feral, touch-starved Bucky, so this fic is just a few thousand words of me rolling around in that trope. 
> 
> I’m honestly not sure if any content warnings apply here. Bucky’s not in the right headspace to give consent, but he does instigate and control all of the touching, and the touching isn't sexual. If I’ve missed something I should warn for, let me know and I’ll add it.

The growl started as soon as Steve stepped through the cell door.

Steve was barefoot and empty-handed, dressed only in sweatpants and a tank top. He spun in a slow circle to show that there were no weapons tucked into his waistband or hidden at the small of his back.  _ No threat_, his lowered gaze and open palms said. 

It was a lie, and the other man in the room knew it. Steve’s body was weapon enough. The growling continued, pausing only when the other man drew breath. Steve kept his eyes pointed at the floor and sidled into the opposite corner.

The cell was a fifteen-by-fifteen foot cube. One corner held a toilet, another a metal cot lined with blankets (and a man under the metal cot, the dark outline of his form barely visible behind an overhanging bedsheet), another the door. The fourth corner, the one Steve was slowly backing into, held shackles, reinforced and anchored to the best of Tony Stark’s ability. Nobody but the Hulk would stand a chance of breaking them.

The shackles were closed. Steve touched them with the electronic key, a round metal disc that beeped on contact with the shackles, and they sprang open.

The growl became a snarl. The hairs on the back of Steve’s neck raised as his own fight or flight response ramped up in response to the increased threat. He held very still for several moments, then gently tossed the key into the middle of the cell, well out of his reach. After another few seconds, he knelt by the shackles and closed the leg cuffs around his own ankles.

The snarl trailed off, dropping back down to a warning growl. Steve could practically smell the man’s confusion--this wasn’t how it was supposed to go. He had expected to be dragged out of hiding, forcibly subdued, and restrained. His captors weren’t supposed to chain  _ themselves_. 

_ Good_, Steve thought savagely. The weirder this was, the less like Hydra this was, the better. He ignored the man entirely and snapped a cuff around his left wrist. There wasn’t much room to maneuver, but he managed to brace the last remaining cuff against the wall to close it over his right wrist. He was left kneeling on the floor, his arms behind his back and secured to his ankles with a short length of chain. The restraints didn’t put his body under any strain, but they wouldn’t let him move more than a foot in any direction, either.

Steve was locked in, now, as helpless as he could manage to make himself. Carefully, slowly, he turned his body to the side as much as he could, showing the other man the shackles tethering him to the floor. Steve leaned forward, keeping the slope of his back and shoulders soft.  _ Harmless, I’m harmless. C’mon, please. _

The growl stopped. 

The silence that followed was the sweetest sound Steve had heard in months. He closed his eyes, rested his head against the wall, and breathed. The cell was thick with the scent of rank alpha--showers had not been a priority--with an alarming undercurrent of sickness. Steve put his worry aside, striving for resolute calm. His own suppressed omega scent should be neutral and soothing.

“JARVIS,” he murmured, “please let everyone know I’m secure.”

“Already done, Captain.” JARVIS’ voice held a hint of disapproval, a much more subdued echo of the furious arguments his creator (and Natasha. And Sam. And--just about everyone, really.) had come out with when Steve first proposed this plan. “I will continue to monitor the situation. As you requested, video surveillance has been restricted to my access only unless an override is necessary.”

Steve could trigger an override with a single word at any time. It would also be triggered automatically if Steve was seriously injured or at risk of death. The arguments over what designated a “serious” injury had degenerated into a screaming match in the middle of the Avengers common room, but Steve had eventually agreed that broken bones (not including fingers and toes), internal bleeding, and/or blows to the head counted. 

He was hoping it wouldn’t come up.

For now, the other man in the cell stayed flattened under the metal cot, as far away from Steve as he could get. Based on the silence, he was holding absolutely still. He clearly wasn’t coming out anytime soon.

That was fine. Steve’s body healed the minor aches that came with maintaining a kneeling position as fast as they started, and Steve hadn’t drunk anything for the past twelve hours, so he wouldn’t need to piss any time soon. His lips twitched into something approximating a smile.  _ I can do this all day. _

“Thanks, JARVIS. Can you start my playlist?”

A cooking podcast started playing at a suitably quiet volume. Steve settled in for a long wait.

* * *

Every podcast episode was an hour long, so the playlist was as good as a clock. A few times an episode, Steve opened his eyes and scanned the cell, checking to see if anything had changed.

Halfway through the third episode, Steve heard the muted scuff of cloth shifting. He kept his eyes closed and his breathing steady.

The next time he opened his eyes, Bucky was out from under the cot and looking directly at Steve. 

He was crouched on the balls of his bare feet with his metal fingertips just touching the floor for balance. His soft shirt and sweatpants hung loose on his too-thin frame. The beard he’d grown during his months in hiding obscured much of his face, but his eyes were clear and intent, focused on Steve. 

Steve couldn’t resist meeting his eyes for a precious instant. He’d been trying not to think of this new version of James Buchanan Barnes as Bucky, with all the shared history the nickname implied--Steve had to remember that this was a changed man, and it wasn’t fair to put that weight on him--but it was impossible to look at that face, so familiar even when it was covered in beard scruff and half-obscured by matted hair, and think of him by any other name. Maybe this man wasn’t  _ Steve’s _ Bucky, not his long-lost and desperately missed mate, but he was  _ Bucky_.

Bucky started growling the instant Steve looked at him. Steve flicked his gaze away and relaxed even further against the wall, closing his eyes.  _ Not a challenge, not a threat.  _

Steve didn’t dare open his eyes again until the podcast episode ended and a new one started. When he did, Bucky was a little closer. He was still crouched like he was ready to spring or flee at the slightest provocation, but Steve didn’t try to look right at him this time, and Bucky didn’t start growling. After a few minutes, Bucky even shifted a tiny bit nearer. 

Well, Bucky-- _Steve’s_ Bucky--had always been curious. Maybe this Bucky was, too, when he was allowed to be. Steve’s heart ached. 

Steve tried to put his feelings aside and pay attention as the podcast host gave tips for getting a souffle to rise properly. It was hard to focus when his whole being was absorbed in tracking Bucky’s stilted progress across the floor, his heart lifting with Bucky’s every shift forward.

Bucky stalled just out of arm's reach (not that Steve could reach for him anyway, with his hands cuffed behind his back). They stayed there, unspeaking, for the podcast host’s whole explanation of dry vs. wet caramels and which method she preferred. Steve’s patience broke during the following lecture on how to brown butter.

“Hey, there,” he said quietly, still not looking at Bucky. “It’s good to see you.”

Bucky didn’t respond. He didn’t start growling again, either. Steve would take whatever victories he could get.

“I’m not sure how much you understand right now,” Steve said. “It’s okay if you’re confused. I know I scared you before. I’m sorry. I hope this is less scary.”

It had taken the Avengers months to track Bucky to an abandoned Hydra base in Siberia. He had been holed up all alone, barely subsisting on shelf-stable rations stockpiled during the cold war years. The profound isolation on top of Hydra’s mistreatment had driven Bucky into a completely feral state. Steve had pleaded with him, tried to spark his memories of their bond, done everything he could think of to persuade Bucky to stand down, but Bucky hadn’t even recognized him. It had taken the whole team to subdue and sedate him without seriously hurting him.

He’d been kept in the Tower’s most secure holding room ever since. Steve had thought, naively, that Bucky would start getting better once he was in a place of safety, but in Bucky’s mind, he wasn’t safe at all. He’d gone from casual cruelty under Hydra to utter loneliness to captivity again, with no break for recovery. 

Three days ago, Steve had been standing in Bruce’s lab, listening with fists clenched as Dr. Cho and Bruce went over Bucky’s latest medical results. Bucky had spent hours that morning trying to punch his way through the wall of his cell, until JARVIS had finally released a sedative into the air to knock him out. They had taken the opportunity while Bucky was unconscious to get an updated blood sample.

Bucky was getting worse. Most of the specifics flew over Steve’s head, but he knew enough to grasp that Bucky’s body was failing due to profound stress and prolonged isolation. 

“He’s trapped in a fight-or-flight state,” Bruce had said. “He’s in an unknown environment, and there’s too much perceived threat for him to relax, but there’s nowhere to run and nothing to fight. The stress hormones are just piling up. His neurotransmitters are dangerously unbalanced.”

Steve had subtly ground his hand into the wall behind him, needing the pain to keep his helpless rage at bay. He was feeling pretty unbalanced himself, these days. “How do we fix it?” 

“He needs a friendly, stabilizing influence. Ideally a packmate, someone he can trust, but unfortunately I doubt he trusts anyone just now.” Dr. Cho had kept her words brisk and impersonal, non-judgmental, but Steve had felt shame rise in him anyway. Steve was supposed to be Bucky’s bondmate, but Bucky wouldn’t even  _ look  _ at him. Some mate he was. “Skin contact would be ideal, but proximity alone should do some good.”

Almost before she had finished her sentence, Steve had left the lab and headed straight for Bucky’s cell. He’d had no plan beyond getting to Bucky. He’d thought Bucky might fight him, and he’d been ready to take the hits if it got Bucky the stress release he needed, but he hadn’t made it that far. As soon as Steve had entered the cell and advanced towards the corner where Bucky was hidden, fear scent had started  _ pouring  _ off of Bucky. Even his warning snarls had changed to high-pitched whimpers, little choked-off yelps like he was a dog with a broken paw, and Steve’s conviction that he was doing the right thing had crumbled under the weight of Bucky’s obvious terror.

Steve hadn’t even gotten within five feet of Bucky before he’d reversed course and backed out of the room. Nothing that scared Bucky that badly could be the right thing to do.

His second attempt was already going so much better. Now that Steve was safely restrained, Bucky wasn’t growling or hiding. He was looking at Steve, and hopefully listening, too. They were a long way from skin contact, but Steve’s ostentatious relaxation and soothing omega scent should be working to help calm Bucky down and get him used to Steve’s presence. It was a start.

* * *

Five hours after he’d first entered the cell, Steve knew more about brioche than he’d ever thought possible. Bucky had lost most of his coiled tension, although he was obviously still wary of Steve. He had prowled around the cell several times in an approximation of the patrols he did when the cell was empty. He gave Steve’s corner a wide berth each time, but otherwise ignored him. Steve was happy to be ignored rather than monitored as an active threat. 

Bucky snapped to attention and retreated under the cot as footsteps approached the door. Steve was a little worried himself--he’d told his teammates not to interfere unless he or JARVIS called for help, but the Avengers had a spotty relationship with direct orders on the best of days.

The footsteps paused outside the door. The two-inch flap at the bottom of the door flipped up and a styrofoam tray laden with food slid under the gap. A moment later, a second tray followed, bumping the first tray further back. The flap closed and the footsteps retreated.

Bucky crawled back out from under the cot, and Steve relaxed. Meal time was part of Bucky’s normal routine, and he didn’t seem fazed by the trays that had appeared. He circled both trays, sniffing at each piece of food--bread rolls, blueberries, salted nuts, sliced banana, french fries, an oatmeal cookie, a packet of applesauce--before sitting back on his heels.

Steve knew that Bucky normally got one tray per meal, four meals per day, to help keep up with his enhanced metabolism. One of Steve’s interfering teammates must have added the second tray as a pointed reminder to Steve that he had a body to feed as well. Nobody had been impressed with Steve’s plan to just not eat or drink while he was in Bucky’s cell, or his logic that it wouldn’t be the first time he’d gone hungry.

Bucky glanced at Steve, then down at the trays. He left the second tray by the door and pulled the first closer to the cot. The nuts, cookie, and applesauce packet disappeared into the dimmest corner, and Steve had to suppress a sigh. They had wondered why Bucky hadn’t been gaining any weight back until they had finally realized he was hoarding half his meals, and had increased the calories provided accordingly.

The rest of the food was wolfed down without ceremony. Steve watched Bucky eating, pleased as always that Bucky was getting enough now, and tried to ignore the saliva pooling in his own mouth.

Halfway through the next podcast episode, during the host’s description of pan-searing mushroom caps, Steve’s neglected stomach whined. Bucky looked up sharply.

Steve shifted against his bonds, embarrassed. “Sorry. Maybe I shouldn’t have picked cooking podcasts to listen to, huh? I always forget they make me hungry. I just thought it might be nice to catch up a little. We used to boil everything.” And food was a safely neutral topic that wouldn’t set Bucky off like a news podcast might have.

Except now Bucky seemed on edge again. He kept glancing sideways at Steve, then at the second tray, which he had left untouched by the door. 

Steve’s stomach rumbled again. Bucky glared at the untouched tray of food, then loped towards it, his steps full of purpose. He picked up the tray and edged closer to Steve.

Steve expected him to stop at the same point he had before, but Bucky kept going, inching forward with the tray in his hands and his eyes on the floor. He set the tray down a foot away from Steve’s knees. Bucky picked up a single blueberry and held it delicately between his metal fingers.

When Bucky slowly extended his hand, holding the blueberry a few inches in front of Steve’s face, Steve realized he’d been holding his breath. Bucky didn’t move his hand any closer, but when Steve cautiously shifted forward the few inches his restraints allowed, he didn’t move back, either. Steve advanced with glacial slowness, watching Bucky for any sign of discomfort, and finally took the berry between his lips.

The taste was startlingly sharp and sweet. Steve’s stomach cramped around the blueberry, reminding him that he’d been hungry for hours. The berry’s juice wasn’t nearly enough to moisten his dry mouth, but Bucky was already picking up a banana slice to offer Steve next.

Bucky started out rigid and tense, only his impervious metal hand getting within range of Steve’s teeth, but as he fed Steve the rest of the fruit, he gradually relaxed. Steve made encouraging “mmm” noises and was careful to keep his teeth away from Bucky’s fingers. By the time the blueberries and banana were gone, Bucky was settled enough to rest on his knees instead of crouching on his feet. 

Hopefully Bucky’s  _ provide  _ instincts were rewarding him with a wave of dopamine and serotonin for feeding the hungry omega. Bucky was definitely getting something out of this; his scent had mellowed, the acrid smell of stress fading as he moved onto offering french fries. Steve knew his own scent was getting richer, his body’s reward circuits lighting up with pleasure at the attentions of his alpha.

_ Not yours anymore. _

Steve tried to push the thought away. He had a mission, dammit, and bawling in the corner over the love of his life not recognizing him anymore was not going to help Bucky feel safe and secure.

Bucky, his hand halfway to Steve’s mouth, stopped and set the french fry back down. Steve couldn’t help but make a little disappointed noise. Bucky’s brow was furrowed.

“What’s the matter, buddy?” Steve asked, keeping his voice soft. Bucky’s eyes flicked rapidly over Steve’s face, glancing from forehead to cheek to mouth. His nostrils flared as he scented the air.

_ Fuck_. Some of Steve’s sadness must have leaked through, and Bucky could sense the change. The thought only made him feel worse. He was supposed to be calm and steady for Bucky, but here he was throwing everything off because he couldn’t keep a lid on his own feelings for five goddamn seconds--

The warmth of Bucky’s right hand landing on Steve’s bare shoulder was completely unexpected. Steve froze and the hand withdrew quickly.

“Sorry, I didn’t--that was good, Bucky. I was just surprised.”

Bucky sat back on his heels and frowned in concentration. Steve mustered all his patience and held completely still, waiting to see what Bucky would do next.

When Bucky’s hand touched Steve’s shoulder again, the pressure was firmer. Prepared this time, Steve leaned slightly into the contact, trying to encourage him. Bucky’s fingers were rough with calluses, and his nails were ragged and sharp-edged, but his grip was carefully light.

They stayed like that for a few minutes, both of them just breathing and getting used to the contact. Bucky was so close now. He rose onto his knees to loom slightly over Steve, his upright posture contrasting with the deferential angle of his head. Steve tucked his own head submissively and watched Bucky’s hands. 

Bucky curled his left fingers inward, his fist too loose to be at all threatening. He brushed his knuckles against Steve’s arm, reaching behind Steve’s back to drag the touch all the way down to Steve’s cuffed wrist. The metal hand left a trail of coolness that raised goosebumps in its wake. 

Steve’s skin felt hypersensitive, alive to every change in pressure as Bucky’s hands roamed over him. Bucky’s left hand touched the bindings at Steve’s wrists and ankles, and Steve wondered if he was nervous about their strength, but soon Bucky was petting along Steve’s shoulders and arms with both hands. 

When Bucky leaned in to nose at Steve’s neck, Steve felt a flare of heat at the accidental brush of Bucky’s lips against his collarbone, and an embarrassing jolt of arousal. 

Bucky paused and scented Steve again. Steve’s face flushed. Bucky’s system was so overtaxed that there was no way he’d reach arousal anytime soon, even if he were capable of giving consent in his feral state, but Steve’s wildly optimistic body didn’t know that, and it was reacting to Bucky’s nearness, producing a hint of slick. 

Slick that Bucky, apparently, had no trouble sniffing out the source of. Bucky hooked a finger in the waistband of Steve’s sweatpants and pulled it forward an inch or so, looking down curiously at the bulge in Steve’s briefs. 

_ Jesus Christ, Buck.  _ “Uh, Bucky, that’s not--” Steve ran out of words, completely at a loss. It was hard to concentrate with Bucky  _ looking  _ at him like that.

“Captain Rogers,” JARVIS said, “should I summon assistance?”

“No!” Steve yelped. They’d made so much progress, and he didn’t want an Avenger bursting in and scaring Bucky back under his bed.

Bucky flinched back like he’d been slapped. He was halfway across the room in an instant, posture closed off and shoulders braced.  _ Expecting to be punished? Shit, so much for not scaring him. _

“No, I’m sorry, Bucky, I didn’t mean you.” Steve made a conscious effort to slow his words down and sound soothing instead of panicked. “You’re fine. Clothes just have to stay on, okay? But you didn’t do anything wrong. I didn’t mean to yell.”  _ Please come back. _

Bucky kept his eyes averted and moved sideways, putting his back to the wall. Not returning, but not retreating back under the cot, either. Steve willed away his anger with himself and tried to relax again. 

After a while Bucky shuffled back towards the food tray and picked up the bread roll. He looked towards Steve cautiously, not quite meeting his eyes.

Steve took a guess. “Is that for me?”

Bucky’s shoulders loosened a little. Right response. He moved back within reach of Steve, offering a torn-off scrap of bread. This time he used his right hand, and that  _ had  _ to be a good sign. At least Bucky trusted Steve not to bite him. 

Steve took it from Bucky’s fingers with his lips and gave Bucky a smile while he chewed. “Thanks, Bucky.”

Bucky fed him the whole roll in small bites, his body relaxing slowly as Steve accepted the food and kept up a steady stream of thanks and reassurance. The bitter apprehension faded from his scent. 

Once the roll was gone, Bucky raised his right hand and set it very lightly against Steve’s shoulder. His eyes darted to Steve’s face and back down, his question unspoken but clear.  _ Is this allowed? _

“That’s great, Buck. You can touch me all you want.”

Apparently that was all Bucky needed. Suddenly Steve had a lapful of warm alpha, with Bucky’s legs straddling his folded thighs. His knees protested at the added weight, but Steve didn’t give a single, solitary fuck. A wave of relief swept through him. Bucky was  _ right there, _ soaking up the contact Steve was only too happy to offer.

Both of Bucky’s hands roamed over Steve’s shoulders and back, one cool, one fever hot. Bucky pressed his chin against Steve’s collarbone and buried his nose in Steve’s neck. Steve let joy fill him, hoping his scent carried proof of how very, very okay this was, and how much Steve wanted Bucky to keep touching him. 

Bucky drew back and met Steve’s eyes for the first time. His fingers traced the outline of Steve’s jaw, smoothing over the hint of stubble that was starting to form. “Steve?” 

Steve drew in a startled breath. “Yeah, Buck, it’s me. It’s Steve.”

Bucky’s right hand migrated to the back of Steve’s neck, not pressing, just resting there. “You’re real?”

Steve wanted to  _ howl_. He tried to keep his voice even. “Yeah, I’m real. I’m right here.”

“Steve,” Bucky sighed, and rested his forehead against Steve’s. Steve breathed him in, stale sweat and alpha musk and the absence of fear.  _ Real, real, real.  _

Bucky slid off Steve’s lap, leaving him abruptly cold. Steve bit back a whine of protest at the loss--he didn’t have the right to complain about whatever Bucky needed, even if what he needed was time away from Steve--but Bucky just scooped something off the floor and came right back. 

Steve didn’t realize what Bucky was holding until he reached behind Steve and touched the key to the cuffs, unlocking them. Shocked, Steve stayed perfectly still as Bucky carefully removed the cuffs from his wrists and ankles.

“You sure?” Steve asked. “They can stay on, I don’t mind.”

Bucky gave him a very familiar  _ you dummy _ look and pulled Steve’s arms forward to wrap around Bucky’s waist. Steve felt Bucky’s arms close firmly behind his back. “Steve.”

Steve finally lost his battle with the tears he’d been pushing back all day. He was holding Bucky in his arms, safe and secure and right where he belonged, for the first time in seventy years. It made him all the more careful to hold Bucky gently, with all the tenderness he could muster. “Yeah, I’m here.”

Bucky tugged them both sideways, pulling Steve off-balance until he wobbled and moved his legs. The flare of pins and needles as blood flow returned to his cramped legs was painful but brief. Steve scooted backward until his back met the wall, then stretched his legs out and wrapped them tailor-style around Bucky. Bucky kept his arms locked around Steve’s middle the whole time they readjusted, like he was afraid Steve would disappear if he let go of him.  _ Not going anywhere, Buck. Never again. _

Bucky yawned and curled up in the circle of Steve’s legs. Now that his guard was down, it was obvious how completely exhausted he was, all animation draining out of him as his body went limp. “Your watch?”

“Yeah, I’ve got this. You just sleep, Buck.” Steve touched Bucky’s head with shaking fingers, stroking gently over his matted hair. Bucky made a small happy noise and pressed his face into Steve’s thigh. His body was a boneless weight in Steve’s lap, his trust incalculably precious. Steve vowed to do everything in his power to be worthy of that trust. “I’ll keep watch.”


End file.
